


The Odds of Another Losing Hand

by Joanjettwannabe



Category: Orange is the New Black, Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-23 18:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanjettwannabe/pseuds/Joanjettwannabe
Summary: Following someone's attempt to take her life after leaving Wentworth, Franky Doyle finds herself in witness protection. After too many nights cooped up inside, she decides to head to a smoke-filled divebar in Melbourne, where she stumbles upon a tall, raven-haired woman with cat-eye glasses and a real knack for smuggling heroin.But after crossing paths with Alex Vause, can Franky Doyle keep her head above water or is she being dealt another losing hand?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first attempt at writing a fanfic so any suggestions are appreciated. Please let me know whether or not you would like to see this story continue or if I should scrap the idea.

Franky startles, waking in a cold sweat, heart pounding, her hair plastered to her clammy skin. She pants, trying desperately and unsuccessfully to calm her breathing as she stares around the strange room and she wipes the sweat and dampened hair from her forehead with trembling hands.  
She can't remember much of anything, and has no clue where she is, let alone how she came to in such a strange place. Glancing around again, she notices the cement walls that surround her, and the tiny window shining moonlight on the floor infront of her, broken up by she shadows cast by what she has a sinking feeling are bars firmly attached outside of the poor excuse of a window. Staring into the darkness for a what feels like an eternity, she can only think of one thing; Wentworth. Memories of all the time she'd spent in the wet cells in her correctional days flood her mind.  
Panic rising, she shakes her head violently, trying desperately to shake the memory of what she calls her past life; back when she really was Franky Doyle.  
Exhaling audibly, she rubs at her face once more before burrying her face into the thin, scratchy blanket drapped over her body. Attempting to ignore the familiar feeling of the sad excuse for a matress below her. She forces her eyes shut, squeezing until she sees auras of colors floating in front of her; bringing along with them the unexpected image of gently curled jet black hair and cat-eye glasses. Her heart beats faster as she slowly succumbs to the darkness surrounding her and the throbbing in her head. Exhaustion winning her over and leaving her with one final, pressing thought:  
.  
.  
.  
.  
What the fuck has Franky Doyle, or should she say 'Charlie Knight', gotten herself into this time?


	2. Death by florescent lighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the time between chapter uploads; had a photo shoot and publications to get done. Please keep the critiques coming!

Screaming in the distance startles Franky awake once again. Squinting into the florescent light glaring above her head she searches her memory for anything that could explain where she was or how she got there.   
She stretches, sliding the flimsy, scratchy blanket from her toned form, and slowly makes her way to the bright red door across from her. 'Peculiar' she thinks, running her hand along the stark white wall as she inches forward, 'this looks nothing like the slot in Wentworth'. Part of her mind is still convinced it's all a dream, or some sick joke. Except she had to leave everyone behind after she was almost murdered, so there was no one left in her life to prank her. She felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, one she hadn't felt since she was a child, standing at the window all night long, waiting for her father to return to save her. 'Loneliness' Franky scoffs. 'I have no idea where the hell I am or how I got here, and my mind is preoccupied with loneliness'. She feels a familiar bubble of anger rising in her throat, and as she rears back to punch the nearest thing to her, a shock of blonde hair catches her eye through the poor excuse for a window adorning her door. Dropping her fist to her side she gasps, 'Allie..?' She whispers, though she cant be certain as to why, considering she must be in isolation, again, which would mean somehow she wound up back in prison.  
From somewhere outside of Franky's cell, but not loud enough to be heard over her inner turmoil, a guard shoves the blonde forward and shouts "keep it moving, Chapman."

Back inside of her cell in the solitary housing unit, Franky climbs back into bed, pressing herself as far as she possibly can into the corner of the room and pulling her knees to her chest she exhales, willing herself to remember what's happened in her life recently that could have possibly landed her here.   
Squeezing her eyes shut, nails digging into her palms, a stray tear rolls down her cheek as a face slowly forms in the darkness infront of her; raven black hair, ivory skin, and those undeniably sexy cat-eye glasses shielding piercing green eyes a totally new shade than Franky's own. Her breath catches in the back of her throat as she manages to squeak out a name, barely audible in the deafening silence surrounding her. "Alex...".

Just as the name passes her lips, the door of her cell swings open, looking up she expects to see Liz or Doreen to see her as peer worker, or hell, even Bridget Westfall standing there. She stiffens at that last thought, smiling sadly at the memory of the older woman's face. Remembering the fight they had in the hospital that night, Bridget leaving her behind in order to force her into witness protection. The memory of Bridget slowly disappearing down a poorly lit, stagnant hallway burned forever into her minds eye.  
Someone clearing their throat rouses her from her thoughts. Glancing up she expected to see Will Jackson or Vera, but instead sees a stocky, middle aged, woman with red hair that came off as a cross between Farrah Fawcett and a mullet. Franky furrows her brow as the woman smirks and motions for her to get up. "It's your lucky day, kangaroo, you're going to gen pop."   
Franky scrunches her nose slightly at the accent, or lack thereof coming from the woman. She sounded...American? And what the fuck is this 'kangaroo' nonsense? Sighing audibly, she complies, shoving herself off of the poor excuse for a matress and holding her arms out to be cuffed as instructed. She shuffles slowly behind officer..what was it..? Bell. That's it. Stitched over her left breast pocket; 'C.O. W. Bell'. Franky glances around, nothing in this place seems familiar, and she knew Wentworth like the back of her hand. Something was very wrong.  
As that last thought passed through her mind, she peered into the window of a cell, noticing once more that shock of blonde hair. She felt a sense of comfort, that is until the watched woman turned over. Franky reeled backward in surprise, feeling panic rising in her chest, the world around her begins to swirl, and she collapses to the ground.


	3. Punky's Pub and a little bit of letting go of Spunky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; getting back into the university life has been rough ontop of working 20 hours a week and I didn't have a lot of free time to write.

Franky Doyle was out cold in the medical unit of Litchfield, and had been for hours now. The young, fresh faced doctor came by periodically to observe the small frame writhing under the sheets as he filled out even more paperwork. Franky could hear muffled voices and a faint beep but couldn't force her eyes to open no matter how hard she tried, so instead she let the darkness consume her, drifting further and further from consciousness.  
•  
•  
•  
•  
Franky paced around her dingy little one bedroom flat in Melbourne. She couldn't breathe; everything she knew was gone, just like when she wound up in foster care, only this time she lost her name, too. "Charlie" she huffs, rolling her eyes. "What a stupid fucking name." She clenches her fists and exhales, she needs to keep herself busy with something before she breaks her protection agreement by calling Bridget Westfall and begging her to come back, to make this all go away. Since her release from Wentworth, hell, even before then, Bridget was her only home. She was lost and afraid without her, but there was no going back now. Bridget made that choice for her, and she hated her for it.  
After throwing back the last of her drink, Franky slams her empty wine glass onto the kitchen bench. Impulsively she grabbed her leather jacket and walked out the door; her frustration at the world, at the situation, at her stupid new fucking name, taking precedent over her underlying fear of doing anything besides going to work and saving lives as a paramedic, and coming home to drink herself into a coma; on a good night even doing so without seeing Bridget's face.   
It had been three months since the home invasion; the attempted murder. She knew deep down that Joan Ferguson was responsible for the knife plunged into her chest, but in true Freak fashion, there was no fucking proof. "Trauma from your Wentworth days", that's all the cops would call it. But the fact of the matter was that this attack happened the one night she hadn't stayed at Bridget's in months, and nothing was stolen or even disturbed; someone broke in, stabbed her in the heart, and left. Someone was out to get Franky Doyle.   
•  
•  
•  
Franky glanced around, totally unaware of her surroundings. She was so engrossed in her thoughts on that night and how she got here that she was clueless as to how she wound up in front of a shitty dive bar named Punky's that was definitely not her typical scene. She was about to turn and leave, to head back to her shitty flat to spend another night alone, afraid, and in a fitfull sleep when she stopped. Shrugging her shoulders she mumbled to herself "maybe it just might be Charlie's scene, then." And shoved the heavy oak door out of her way, sombering into the smoke-filled haze and shitty local music filling the air inside.  
Without so much as a glance around the place, she dropped onto the nearest open bar stool and ordered a gin and tonic, handing over her debit card, she told the bartender to just open a tab with a sullen smile. Her fingertips brushing over the letters of her fake name emblazoned on the card burned like hell fire as he slid the card from her palm, so "Charlie" did what she always does; she drinks.  
Four drinks in, she can't shake the feeling that someone is watching her. She can feel eyes burning into her back, and panic slowly begins to build like a rock in her belly. After slamming her drink in an attempt to calm her nerves, she slowly slides off of the bar stool she's been planted on for at least two hours now and, avoiding any eye contact, walks quickly down the hall lit only with neon signs twisted in the shape of shitty beer names and naked women toward the bathroom. • • • stepping out of the stall, Franky re-rolls her sleeves and heads toward the sink to wash her hands, she glances up from her feet seconds before she would have collided with the ivory skinned, raven haired beauty perched at the edge of the countertop; clearly waiting for someone. A crack in the armor shone as Franky Doyle's signature smirk hit her face for the first time in ages; her voice doesn't seem to come from her as she throws out a "hey there hot stuff. If you're lookin' for a hot bathroom encounter ya gotta let a girl know you're here, aye?"  
What she wasn't expecting was the affect the raven haired woman would have on her when she simply cocked an arched brow at her over black frames, returning a smirk of her own.  
Maybe it was all the alcohol catching up with her, but god damn it if she hadn't forgotten what it was like to lust after someone. Especially someone who she never would have considered her type.


End file.
